


No Escape from Reality

by dedicatedfollower467



Series: Whatever This World Can Give to Me [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Spanish Inquisition, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 18:00:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19178509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedicatedfollower467/pseuds/dedicatedfollower467
Summary: It's been two months since Aziraphale last saw Crowley, which is just a bit too long for comfort. When he decides to go looking, he isn't prepared for what he finds.





	No Escape from Reality

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from "Bohemian Rhapsody" ofc.
> 
> This is an expansion of a single line from the book. I hope folks enjoy Aziraphale's POV as much as they enjoy Crowley's!

Aziraphale worries. He is a natural worrier. If there were a first prize for worrying, Aziraphale would be very concerned about where to put it and whether anyone would notice he’d got it and if it was really all right for him to win, being an angel and all.

He really _oughtn’t_ worry, and he knows it. He is an angel, one of God’s handcrafted messengers, and he should have complete and total faith in Her. He ought to trust wholeheartedly in the Divine Plan and accept that bad things that happen, such as they are, are only part and parcel of a much greater and grander whole. Gabriel has no trouble trusting Heaven, and neither do Uriel or Sandalphon or Michael or any of the rest of them. It’s just Aziraphale who can’t seem to summon up the faith that everything will turn out for the better, in the end.

Of course, all this ultimately means that Aziraphale worries about being a worrier, which really just makes the whole thing worse.

Right now, he is worrying about Crowley.

Possibly, he shouldn’t. He’s devoted quite a lot of effort over the years to worrying about whether it’s really all right to care for Crowley as much as he does, to be concerned after the demon’s wellbeing, and he’s mostly come to the conclusion that the answer is _no_ , he shouldn’t be worrying after a foul minion of Hell whose only goal is to spread sin and misery on the Earth that Aziraphale is charged to protect. And he certainly shouldn’t _love_ Crowley the way he does - with a personal, intimate kind of love for an individual, not the grand, all-encompassing Holy Love with which he loves just about everything else.

But, er, well, Heaven hasn’t really seemed to _notice_ just yet, that he loves and cares for Crowley, and though Aziraphale will be very concerned and cautious about it, he’ll go right on worrying for the demon until someone actually tells him to stop.

It has been months since he last saw Crowley, which isn’t wholly unusual. The two of them frequently go years and sometimes even decades - or _centuries_ \- in between seeing each other. A few months would normally be nothing at all. Usually it takes Aziraphale a few years to build up a good head of steam when it comes to his Crowley worrying.

It’s just that, well, the _last_ time Aziraphale had seen him, Crowley had had very urgent business somewhere in Spain. He _had_ said they should meet again a bit later to discuss how they were going to divide up the temptations and the blessings, what with the New World suddenly becoming so interesting both to the rulers of various European countries and to Upstairs and Downstairs. And he’d promised to come by for a short visit, right after he’d finished up with Spain.

That had been nearly two months ago. He’d had no communication from the demon since then. Aziraphale was getting just a _touch_ frantic about it.

So he’d decided to go looking.

It takes him the better part of a week to travel through Spain, searching for rumors of Crowley. It’s not very helpful.

“Tall man, wears tinted spectacles, has long red hair?” he finds himself desperately asking anyone who will give him the time of day.

First the rumors lead him to the Tribunals. The _autos-da-fé._ The… the torture.

Then they lead him to a tiny bar in Madrid, where a pathetic figure sits in the corner, clutching a bottle of something a bit stronger than wine and surrounded by a ring of empties, like a tiny glass audience lining up to watch an execution.

Aziraphale sighs, smells the stale alcohol and body odor. Then he bends down and gently removes the bottle from Crowley’s hand - a surprisingly difficult task to accomplish, as Crowley’s fingers have frozen into a clawed grip on the neck.

“Whrmnf?” Crowley slurs, lifting his head to stare unseeing at Aziraphale. Aziraphale sets the bottle back down on the table and reaches for the demon.

“Come now, dear, let’s get you out of here,” he whispers, and pulls Crowley upright.

Crowley sways and topples forward, legs incapable of supporting his own body, but Aziraphale is there to catch him, throwing Crowley’s arm across his shoulders and his own arm around Crowley’s waist. He has to drag the demon out of the bar, as Crowley is making no effort to move and is merely a limp, dead weight at Aziraphale’s hip.

“Zrfl?” Crowley says, in only the vaguest approximation of Aziraphale’s name.

“Yes, it’s me, now hush.”

Aziraphale helps Crowley to stumble along the streets of Madrid at noon, and as they pass, various reproachful stares watch them go. Aziraphale tries to communicate via smile and gesture that his friend just got a little carried away, celebrating you know, but rather thinks he fails to convince anyone.

He hates watching Crowley’s legs drag in the dirt and the pull across his shoulders tells him that he is very nearly wrenching Crowley’s arm out of its socket. So finally, Aziraphale stops in the middle of a square and scoops Crowley up, cradling him like a baby.

A very large, drunken baby, who curls his face into Aziraphale’s chest and mumbles something incomprehensible.

Aziraphale feels his face flush as he continues walking. “I know it’s probably terribly humiliating, my dear,” he says, sort of patting Crowley’s side with a flapping hand. “But I’m hoping you won’t remember this tomorrow morning.”

They make it to an inn, where Aziraphale finds that he already miraculously has a room and a key, and carries Crowley up the stairs. He lays Crowley down in the small, but comfortable bed, though the demon’s long limbs keep tangling with his as if he were still the serpent he’d once been.

When Crowley finally lies back with a pathetic little sound, Aziraphale can’t stop himself from smoothing a few stray hairs out of his face. With a snap, he miracles away most of Crowley’s tight-fitting, stained clothes, leaving him in only a loose pair of breeches.

This is, Aziraphale realizes, the first time he’s ever seen Crowley’s bare chest.

After all, they both lean towards high-class, luxuriant clothing, and they’re hardly in the habit of disrobing around each other. Even in Egypt, Crowley had had a tendency to wear a shirt or tunic or something that covered his upper body - usually black, of course.

It almost hurts, how narrow and bony Crowley’s torso is, seeing his ribs under the skin. No matter the current fashion Crowley has always been slim, but seeing him like this, Aziraphale wonders if it’s possible for a demon to not eat enough.

“‘Zirafl?” Crowley mutters. Aziraphale starts, and then quickly bustles about tucking the demon into bed.

“It’s all right, dear, you just go ahead and sleep it off,” he says.

“‘Dja see it, Angel?” Crowley says. “Th’nquisisishun?”

Aziraphale sighs. “I - yes, Crowley,” he says. “I saw the Inquisition.”

Crowley makes a little noise in the back of his throat that Aziraphale doesn’t know how to interpret. “Got a - a _fucking_ Comed- Commer - _Commendation_ f’rit.”

For one second a flash of rage fills Aziraphale - a rage he hasn’t felt in a long time. “ _You_ did th-”

Crowley doesn’t let him finish, snapping upright in the bed and flailing his hands about, accidentally smacking Aziraphale in the arm.

“ _No,_ Angel! ‘Sall the humans, damn _bloody-minded_ fucking - I’d _never,_ not ‘na million years…” He trails off, sinking his face into his cupped hands. Aziraphale hears something almost like a sob.

The rage fades as quickly as it had come, replaced by pity, and a familiar tender-heartedness that Aziraphale has come to associate with spending time with Crowley. He loves Crowley, differently than he’s ever loved any other being, and seeing him this aching and vulnerable makes Aziraphale want to fulfill his original design - to protect that which has been vouchsafed to him.

Right now, Aziraphale feels as though he is holding Crowley’s bruised and battered soul in his hands.

Aziraphale places a gentle hand on his bare shoulder, and helps Crowley lie back down in the bed. He brushes away a wet tear glistening on Crowley’s cheek.

“Sleep now, my dear boy,” he says, as Crowley closes his yellow eyes. “You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

Crowley sighs and turns his head into Aziraphale’s touch, muttering something against the palm of his hand. Aziraphale can feel his lips brushing against the skin, the puff of air as he exhales. Shaking, Aziraphale almost jerks his arm away, and Crowley falls asleep.

Crowley sleeps for a week straight. Aziraphale sits in a chair by his bedside the entire time, maintaining a silent vigil and listening to the sound of Crowley’s breathing.

When Crowley wakes, bleary and distant, Aziraphale excuses himself.

“You know where to find me, if you need me,” Aziraphale says.

Their eyes meet, and Aziraphale just knows Crowley wants to say something. _Thank you_ , maybe, or _I’m sorry_ , or possibly _You can’t tell anyone about this._

“Yeah. See you around, Angel,” he says, and Aziraphale feels something inside him sink.

“Yes, right. Of course. Goodbye, Crowley.” He turns to go and pauses for a moment on the threshold. “Mind how you go.”

Then he leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> Friendly reminder that I will take prompts/requests/questions about this verse! I won't guarantee I'll write any of it, but I will at least look at them. Thanks for reading!


End file.
